The Bois Brule River in northern Wisconsin is one of America's most fabled trout streams. Originally famous for its now almost extinct Coaster Brook Trout the river has been fished by at least five American Presidents. Calvin Coolidge even spent his summers here during his presidency! Today the Brule is known for it's large resident brown trout and the legendary Hex (Hexagenia limbata) hatch, and it's wild, super-charged steelhead. These aren't the stockers that live a charmed life in the bountiful waters of Lake Michigan, but wild fish that have to survive in the cold, barren, inhospitable wilds of Lake Superior. These fish are mythical.
They don't generally grow large (ten pounds is a true trophy although a few in the teens have been caught) and there's not a heap of fish, and fooling them is seldom easy. The river also has many miles of fishable and fish holding water that spread out the anglers and fish. It is very scenic with a wonderful blend of evergreens and others. Despite being a very low flow year the river is a strong, surging waterway and you need to take care wading it. The water has the tannic stain of many Lake Superior streams but is pleasing, and "fishy" to the eye.
We arrived to bright morning sunshine and fished a beautiful stretch of river not far upstream of the mouth. Everywhere looked like good holding water but we saw and caught nothing. We moved upstream a ways. We fished hard and everyone we encountered said the fishing was poor - very poor. We didn't come across anyone that had tied into fish (at least that admitted it). We did come across Johnny and Marty. Marty was a nuclear engineer in Mantiwok and Johnny a long time fishing buddy. Marty had guided for many years and fished everywhere from the famed Hardy's beat in England to his home river the Mantiwok. He fished only speys on the swing and beautiful bamboo rods and Hardy reels. They had fished ten days without a fish but didn't seem to care. They had caught so many steelhead that any additions to their totals had to comply with the anglers rules. They were very friendly and full of information but eventually the pull of the stream had us back on the river.
We fished here and there and there and here, all without luck. My back and shoulders hurt, the sun was down and the light was fading. Ted was upstream and I'd all but given up on even seeing a fish. It seemed as though the river was lifeless. I came to another wonderful run but this time made a strange choice. From the bank I stood the pool was easy to fish. It gently dropped into deep water but the river direction meant the best drift would require me wading through the tricky currents and depths to the steep and treeclad other side. Was it worth it?
Why I crossed I don't know as I was already convinced there were no fish in the damn stream. Anyway I cast my heavily weighted hex nymph into the fast water beneath the rapids at the ead of the pool and it stopped. The fly had stopped many times already this day, and many had been claimed by the rocks and logs strewn along the bottom. I thought nothing of it and frustratingly jagged the rod towards the sky to either pull my fly loose or break my tippet (at this point I didn't care which). That was it. The black bullet screamed up out of the water like a missile right at me. That fish jumped three or four times as it shot downstream and I audibly begged the heavens that I might land this fish. I scrambled after it, dropping to my knees at least twice as I made my way through the large rocks and bushes and deadfall. Finally I made it into the lower pool only to watch my line arch back up through the fast water into the original pool. My knee already hurt. The fish fought for some time in that pool before slipping effortlessly through what seemed to me to be heavy water. This time I needed to pass my rod through tree branches and the loose rocks fell around my footsteps as I clambered along the steep back. Then, just as I thought I had gained the upper hand it headed back to the rapids and down it went. At this point my knee was throbbing in pain, my elbow was leaving blood on everything it touched, the darkness in the valley made it hard to distinguish individual trees on the far bank. Almost all the fishermen were already back eating dinner. I had no choice but to follow and I watched as the fish headed for the lower pool again. I just didn't have any more in me. I decided now or never and tightened up the drag. With each passing moment I gained confidence and put more wood on the fish. Finally, in some shallow chutes barely deep enough to cover the fishs back I grabbed the line and watched my fish beach itself in the shallows. With the prize in sight I scrambled once again down to my prize. It was beautiful, glistening mint silver even in the failing light. This was easily the brightest fish I'd caught and possibly the most beautiful, not to mention most fulfilling. I took a measure and it went 25 inches. As luck would have it Ted was walking downstream on the fisherman's trail and came over once I called. He also stood impressed at the catch. No matter what the next two days would bring I felt I couldn't surpass this. What a night!
The next morning looked good, there was a low, overcast sky and a light drizzle falling. It was cooler and there had been some heavier rain the previous evening. It looked like good steelhead dey but somehow my heart wasn't in it. We headed to a spot we'd heard good things about and the two of us split up. I worked away but without conviction. I'm not saying I didn't want to hook more fish - I'd have loved it but I'd already done what I'd come hoping to do, and it was even better than I'd imagined. As time wore on I figured I head up to see how Ted was going. He's walked quite a ways downstream and if my memory serves me well he'd hooked a few smolt (or small resident rainbows as it's hard to tell) but no steel. On my travels I'd noticed a fisherman plumbing the one nice pool for over and hour and then by the time Ted and I had gotten back up to the pool at least another hour and a half had passed. We fished the pool below him for a while, but because the fishing was slow we spent as much time talking as going through the motions.
After a time the gentleman moved out of his pool and went just downstream of us, mentioning the lack of success he'd seen. His pool was the last pool between us and the car so I opted not to fish it but Ted couldn't resist. Within two drifts a heavier rain squall came through and BAM, his rod went off. The first run was feisty but it soon became evident it wasn't a large fish. In no time at all Ted had to hand what is known locally as a jack, or male fish returning from the lake after only a year (not to spawn).
We could see the gentleman downstream was a little disappointed that he's spent so long working that pool with no success, only to see someone hook up in no time (and he'd been using spawn!!). Only a few drifts later and Ted was hooked up again. As Ted played the fish I watched as our downstream gentleman friend just deflated and sank his butt down onto a rock. Even from our distant vantage point it seemed his spark was gone. Ted's fish was another jack but very pretty indeed. We again met up with Marty and Johnny and this time shared a good lunch and great conversation and learned a tremendous amount.
We fished all afternoon and then the next morning. In the morning I came upon a large pool with the occasional splosh from a large fish. However, at the head of the pool a light hatch of white wulffs was coming off and being sipped happily by resident rainbows. I tied on the closest thing I had and off to the races I went. Had the offering been closer I'm sure the action would have been better but I still managed a few fish. The highlight was a dark slash come up from the depths of the far bank and slam the fly. The large fish was on for a few seconds before pulling free. I checked the fly and the hook had broken at the bottom of the shank. It had been a cheap, size fourteen of sixteen fly from a discount sporting goods store, tied on a cheap hook. That will teach me! Unfortunately that was it for me. No more steelhead and I don't think Ted got anymore either. The river is very scenic with plenty of water just great for flyfishing. The fish, at least the one I caught, are a cut or two above the stockers caught from Lake Michigan. I was a good trip.
